14.  My journals are like to be very diverting, now I cannot stir abroad, between accounts of Mr. Harley’s mending, and of my broken shin.  I just walked to my neighbour Vanhomrigh at two, and came away at six, when little Harrison the Tatler came to me, and begged me to dictate a paper to him, which I was forced in charity to do.  Mr. Harley still mends; and I hope in a day or two to trouble you no more with him, nor with my shin.  Go to bed and sleep, sirrahs, that you may rise to-morrow and walk to Donnybrook, and lose your money with Stoyte and the Dean; do so, dear little rogues, and drink Presto’s health.  O pray, don’t you drink Presto’s health sometimes with your deans, and your Stoytes, and your Walls, and your Manleys, and your everybodies, pray now?  I drink MD’s to myself a hundred thousand times.

15.  I was this morning at Mr. Secretary St. John’s for all my shin; and he has given me for young Harrison the Tatler the prettiest employment in Europe; secretary to my Lord Raby,[3] who is to be Ambassador Extraordinary at the Hague, where all the great affairs will be concerted; so we shall lose the Tatlers in a fortnight.  I will send Harrison to-morrow morning to thank the Secretary.  Poor Biddy Floyd[4] has got the smallpox.  I called this morning to see Lady Betty Germaine, and when she told me so, I fairly took my leave.  I have the luck of it;[5] for about ten days ago I was to see Lord Carteret;[6] and my lady was entertaining me with telling of a young lady, a cousin, who was then ill in the house of the smallpox, and is since dead:  it was near Lady Betty’s, and I fancy Biddy took the fright by it.  I dined with Mr. Secretary; and a physician came in just from Guiscard, who tells us he is dying of his wounds, and can hardly live till to-morrow.  A poor wench that Guiscard kept, sent him a bottle of sack; but the keeper would not let him touch it, for fear it was poison.  He had two quarts of old clotted blood come out of his side to-day, and is delirious.  I am sorry he is dying; for they had found out a way to hang him.  He certainly had an intention to murder the Queen.

16.  I have made but little progress in this letter for so many days, thanks to Guiscard and Mr. Harley; and it would be endless to tell you all the particulars of that odious fact.  I do not yet hear that Guiscard is dead, but they say ’tis impossible he should recover.  I walked too much yesterday for a man with a broken shin; to-day I rested, and went no farther than Mrs. Vanhomrigh’s, where I dined; and Lady Betty Butler coming in about six, I was forced in good manners to sit with her till nine; then I came home, and Mr. Ford came in to visit my shin, and sat with me till eleven:  so I have been very idle and naughty.  It vexes me to the pluck[7] that I should lose walking this delicious day.  Have you seen the Spectator[8] yet, a paper that comes out every day?  ’Tis written by Mr. Steele, who seems to have gathered new